


Colors

by tfbl



Category: Adams æbler | Adam's Apples (2005), Martha Marcy May Marlene
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 08:10:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4698662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tfbl/pseuds/tfbl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Colors.  Pink and silver, orange and blue and everything in between.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colors

**AN1:** I don’t own the characters or the franchise that they belong to.

 **AN2:** I know that the grammar and format most likely suck, but I wrote this within an hour over eight months ago and have no interest in altering it. It took three weeks just to work up enough ambition just to post this, so please don’t mention anything about how shitty you find my lack of writing skills, alright?

 

_Colors_

Colors

Pink and silver, orange and blue and everything in between.

They appeared with doors slamming or glass shattering or bells ringing or words being spoken. They’d always been there and Ted was used to them, used to seeing the dark oil silk hues of his name or the yellow-green of splitting wood but out here, out at this chapel with peeling paint and apple trees and prisoners and this priest, the colors are different somehow. Harsh, much of the time. Red and violet or neon coupled with a blinding white that makes his eyes sting and head ache.

But Ivan, well Ivan is different.

The hues that come from him, this man with the broken nose and fragile smile and gentle hands aren’t quite the same. Turquoise words and brown laughter and lavender when he washes dishes and brilliant ruby as he says his son’s name.

The man that preaches the lord’s word, whom gifts him with a package of foxglove seeds with quivering fingers and whom plays cards and excels at cleaning is tan and bluish white and sunflower yellow.

This person that Ted walks through the fields with and disguises Dickens and Job and gardening and past losses, whose eyes light up whenever he sees Ted talking to and teaching and laughing with and spending time with Christopher, the person whom argues and laughs and hates guns and violence and proudly calls an ex-neo nazi his friend, whom is patient and kind and is so very, _very_ beautiful is soft pink and deep green and a radiant silver.

The father with scars on his back and memories of blood and pain, whom chocks off a scream when Ted is almost gutted in Adam’s place and whom Adam watches with protective eyes is black and burnt orange and washed out gray.

This man with chocolate eyes and a molasses slow temper and calloused fingertips and soft palms whom can’t bake or play baseball, whom drinks Ted’s horrible tea and avoids brandy and reads to Christopher and whom Ted dreams about at night, this person whom he is absolutely and completely in love with is deep gold and scarlet and magenta and cream and vomit green and pastel pink and shimmering jade and as Ted sits there at the table across from him, this person whom Ted knows is somehow in love with him in turn, about to eat a pie with too much baking soda and glances idly at the oil silk hues that appear as Ivan speaks his name, Ted knows that he wouldn’t trade Ivan or his colors for anything.


End file.
